


Corrupted files

by AntivanCrafts



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-26
Updated: 2016-10-02
Packaged: 2018-07-26 20:40:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7589284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AntivanCrafts/pseuds/AntivanCrafts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a series of loosely connected vignettes centered on missed opportunities. scenes that weren't, but could have been, interactions that might have happened.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Devil on the Doorstep

**Author's Note:**

> this first chapter centers on garak during the season one episode "if wishes were horses" and a possible answer to what he may have been up to

It ended the way it had begun, with his hands folded in the spaces between himself and Ten Lubak, lips curled in a faint mockery of a smile as the seconds ticked away into silence. Small infinities spun into creation and died as he held his breath, waiting for something, anything, to break it. Cardassians did not sweat, but Elim fancied he could feel a trickle chill down his spine. The walls seemed to breathe in time with the gentle tilt of his axis, primed to fall, but not yet. Not yet.

Tearing his gaze from the slow advance of metal, he looked into into eyes as flat and unyielding as his own that watched his every movement with nary a twitch. Or so it would seem to the uninitiated observer. He had long known the intricacies of fear fueled desperation, but not lately from this angle, and he noted his own panic with a distant, clinical detachment. How, after the first minutes had dragged by with nothing to mark it but the rise of gorge in your throat, that very expression became your clock. Your only hope for escape. And so it was. He studied every minute flicker, noted the changes as a gardener would approaching thunderheads. Read the distant amusement in the clasp of familiar, unfamiliar hands. Eagerness in Ten's slight shift where he sat, and still, there was silence, damning and damned all at once, weighing the air heavy with words left unsaid.

He lifted a shaking hand to grasp at his hair. It lay plastered to his scalp in the dry heat of his room. What had felt comfortable, soothing, when he had sequestered himself in here only a few short hours ago now felt too close, too thick, acrid on his tongue and only growing more. He did not attempt to break the silence himself, knew from experience that at best it would be met with more silence, and at worse...

Swallowing hard with an audible click, he tried to distance himself from the rising tension in his belly, cold and tasting like guilt. He failed. Briefly wondered if this was what it had felt like for Parmak before shoving that thought away with a violent wrench echoed in the twist of the ceiling as he sagged on the table, one hand snapping out to grasp the edge of the table. He missed. Had a moment of pure, mindless shock --him, caught unawares, and by something so ridiculous as _silence_ , by his own room-- before he managed to catch himself a bare inch from knocking over the bottle he'd brought here from Quark's as soon as he'd understood what was happening outside. Imaginations running wild, Quark had said, watching him from beneath lowered lids and a subtle tilt of the head when Quark asked what delights his own mind would bring up. He had laughed and thrown out a line for Quark to follow and chase and catch only to find that there nothing at the end, not even bait, because.

Because his imagination was nothing he wished to expose any he cared about to.

He had laughed, his hand lingering a tad too long on Quark's shoulder before he pulled away. His hands had felt cold and empty on the long walk back, filled only with glass that was warmed only reluctantly, that now chilled him nowhere near so much as the quiet, as the building pressure in the back of his head that spoke of a nameless, gibbering dread. Should he so choose to look closer, he knew it had a name. Four of them. But he did not, never had, and shoved himself upright. The shapes of the room were playing tricks on him, now, because for a moment he could have sworn that- but no.He had been confined too long, that was all.

And he supposed he had been, or not at all. If he'd gone by the stiff crawl of his shoulders towards his ridges, it could have been days later, but he knew better. Knew that exactly one hour had passed, down to the minute, when Ten Lubak stirred. "Tell me," Ten said, pouring himself a finger of kanar into Elim's own glass before he took it from his unresisting hands, "was it worth it?"

He scrubbed a hand down his hair, lingering at the puckered rise of scales that was all that was left of where the wire was surgically implanted, and said, "Of course it was." But his voice came out a hoarse rasp that scraped his throat raw. If his mouth had tasted of coins and a moisture that this room had bled away, he would not have been surprised.

What _was_ a surprise was the sound of footsteps outside the door, and whatever bare relief he had managed to scrape up gave way completely. It was impossible to tell if they were coming or going. The cadence, though, was the young doctor's, with that slight hitch to every third step that translated to a bounce when you could see him. Without that visual confirmation, it was worrying, as was the gentle chime of an incoming message from the intercom. "Garak?" Julian. He could say that here, in the silence of his own head, but he didn't have to look at Ten to see his smile. He could feel it.

Ten Lubak's long braid slithered down his shoulder in a fall of black on grey as he bent to brace an elbow on the table, eyes bright. Without the strain of passing years or the weight of pain adaptations lingering in the crinkle of his eyes or the too careless wave of a hand, you could have thought they were two different people. "You can leave any time you wish," Ten said, and it was true. The only thing that kept him trapped in the close (and growing closer with every shuddering breath, eased out easy enough, but there never seemed enough air to refill his lungs on the inhale) confines of his room was the knowledge that with him would come Ten.

"Ah, doctor," he said aloud as he stumbled to the door. "Please do remove yourself before I or, indeed, I, begin the tumbling blocks that will lead to-"

"Garak? Are you there? You would not believe what is going on outside. I thought we could talk it over at our lunch date. Garak?"

"My apologies, doctor," he said smoothly into the intercom. There was that distant clinical observation again, that sensation of watching himself lean against the wall in a faux casual slouch as, beyond him, Ten prowled like a caged beast, all eyes and long legged strides and the glint of a toothy smile. _Is it worth it?_ "But I do believe that I have no imagination at all, save for my bed. A very late night, or, hmm, several. Perhaps we should have one of those charming human constructions. A rain check?"

"Do you really think," Ten said with that soft smile he so remembered from the last time he had seen Parmak before leaving planetside for what he had not known would be the last time, "that this will change anything? This struggle? We both know that all that separates you from me is a few inches and one word from a smiling mouth."

And so it began the way it had ended, with his hands folded in the spaces between himself and Elim, lips curled in a faint mockery of a smile as the seconds ticked away into silence.


	2. Move Along

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> takes place during the events of The Homecoming

Nog paced the confines of his quarters, glaring resentfully at the door. It was indeed locked, but on his end, and at his uncle's insistence. And he didn't understand why. So there was some graffiti on the front door to the bar, what did that matter? Itr was all over the station. It didn't mean anything, just that some bajorans were feeling brave and wanted to show off to their friends, probably right after being served liquid courage by their friendly neighborhood ferengi.

He snorted, only just refraining from kicking the wall. He'd already done that not too long ago, and he was still smarting over it.

It was another hour before his uncle knocked, using a code he'd forced Nog to memorize, one that he said would change every day, and opened the door to admit a cheerfully smiling Quark. His uncle was practically skipping, a sight that made Nog scowl in equal measure. His uncle was always saying to take care not to show your emotions so easily, but it was safe with his uncle and father (and Jake, whispered an internal voice he waved away impatiently).

"Uncle," he demanded as soon as his face cleared the doorway, "when can I come out? This is- its ridiculous." He tried to use the tone he remembered Quark using with Odo, having watched their interactions very closely. Wheedling and offhanded, as if it didn't matter at all, when it very much did.

"What," Quark asked, "is the fifty-seventh rule of acquisition?"

Nog sighed. "Language created the argument, but math sustained it," he droned in the tired drawl born of repetition. His uncle snapped his fingers.

"That is correct!" Quark's grin was slightly manic.

Nog glowered, but tried to keep himself under control, which worked for roughly five seconds before he blurted out, "But uncle, everyone has always hated us before, how is this any different?"

Quark's smile flickered for the briefest of moments before it returned in full force. "If the bajorans are growing bold enough to desecrate my bar," and he gave the word bar the strangest emphasis, on a pause, as if hed meant to say something else but thought better of it, "then its better not to encourage anything more, ah, pointed." He made an aborted movement with his hand towards his face that stopped halfway there and instead planted it on his hip, a gesture long drilled into him as a mark of authority and power. Or what someone wanted to appear that way, if they did it on purpose, as he could readily tell his uncle was.

"From me, or the bajorans?" Nog barely held back the growl from slipping between his pointed teeth.

"Its just for a few more, ah," Quark hesitated, making Nog immediately suspicious.

"A few more what? Days? Weeks? I haven't even done anything to deserve this punishment, uncle." Nothing he'd been caught at, anyway, which was of course the ferengi way, and Quark readily encouraged. Any punishments were then implemented to prevent getting caught in the future, a neat system that worked out for everyone. But not now, it seemed. Had he figured out about his last attempt to trade in on information to find out more about his mother?

Quark's smile stretched tight at the edges, too wide and too strained. "No," he said, or started to say, but then seemed to think better of it. "Yes," he said, then, "you have. You have, ah, failed to consider the most important rule of acquisition."

"And what's that?"

"I am your uncle, and I said so."


	3. Just a Twist of Metal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Occuring during the season two episode Cardassians

What with one thing and another Kira didn't manage to find herself standing before Keiko and Miles O'Brians' quarters to visit the boy until the third day into his stay aboard the station (though she supposed, if she was to be honest with herself, which she was a sticker, some would say nigh-on anal about), she may have been finding her mind settling into familiar ruts worn into her mind as they days wore on, ones that she had no intention of bringing anywhere near Rugal Migdal. They may have been inspired by -not caused, never caused- by him, but she certainly wasn't going to allow herself to bring such polluting thoughts near someone so vulnerable. Not that her thoughts were at all the sort she suspected many aboard the station would have thought she'd have had, but it wasn't so long ago that she'd have agreed, and whatever his personal feelings may have been on the subject now, she didn't want her own to show on her face or her paugh.

She smoothed a hand down the white shirt she habitually wore beneath her work dress and started to press the chime to let them know she was there when the door was opened abruptly before she could even truly begin the motion. It was Miles, a look of naked relief on his face now that he wasn't looking directly Rugal and had to school his features, and Kira lifted a hand up to squeeze his shoulder. "I hear you have a new tenant who has a taste for the finer things in life," she said, smiling when he mouthed 'thank you' and squeezed her hand.

"If you're implying we had a bit of... first meeting awkwardness..." He gave a laugh and a helpless shrug. "You would be right. Thought maybe you could offer some perspective we needed, and..." He went quiet again, both of them thinking of events not long past. "I think it couldn't hurt, is all." Kira could only return that smile, stiff though it was, before he moved past her and out, pausing only to press her hands together in his and let out a breath she was sure he'd been holding all evening. There was a wealth of conversations there, but none she had time for tonight. And then he was gone. Ordinarily, he'd have stayed, she was more than certain, but she had made it a point to ask him for alone time with Rugal, and had thought that Miles was in the unique position to understand.

She heard his voice in murmured conversation down the hall, and before she entered their apartment she glanced down to tip her head respectfully to Keiko and then again to the prophets before entering their home.

It was hardly the first time she'd been here, but it was the first time she'd been here without any of the usual occupants present. It felt more than a little like intruding upon something quiet and hidden and sacred, until she caught a glimpse of dark eyes, gone wide with surprise and no little bit of the relief that had been on Miles's face just a few moments ago. The second thing she'd caught a glimpse of made her smile stiffen.

Before the Occupation, Bajorans used their earrings to communicate one's personal faith and the social standing of their family, but now, looking at the earring Rugal bore with such a fierce, defiant thrust to his chin, all she could see was-

But. No.

She swallowed, and turned her mouth into the crook of a finger. "Now," she said, letting that hand drop before lifting it to cup an elbow, a nervous habit she had yet to truly break. Standing still had been drilled into her and drilled into her, but the second regimented lines fell away she shifted as anxiously as a long tailed creature in a room full of... well, the Earth metaphor fell away there, but that wasn't the point. "I could be wrong, and feel free to stop me, but I was told that there was someone here who was raised on certain stories right alongside certain Bajoran pastry puff dishes. Give me a moment, I'm sure I'll think of it."

They exchanged, if not quite smiles, the appraising look of two well matched allies on the field of battle, and Kira moved to punch in the code for the sort of simple fare Bajorans had grown up eating during wartime and so had developed a taste for, and sat a bowl before Rugal and one herself at the opposite end. Kira swung her leg wide as she twisted the chair around to the side to make enough room for as much space as she made a habit of occupying, even amongst friendlies, and lifted a fork to prod at the air above her food. "They're something, aren't they?" She asked in an almost absentminded tone, still not quite making eye contact. "Not a nose ridge or a scale between them but they manage to dig just enough beneath your layers to make you twitch, hmm?" She could guess the sort of conversations that had happened in this apartment about and around Rugal, and to be honest, not too long ago she wouldn't have thought a thing about it, and why would she? Wasn't like he was a Cardassian, everyone knew what a real Cardassian was like, and this wasn't it, or so she'd have said.

And she'd have been wrong to think it, just as she'd have been wrong to look at Rugal and see only see every Bajoran child taught to hate themselves for what they were, because what they were, used and abused and slaughtered, but that was an unworthy thought, an ugly one. Because Rugal was Bajoran, just as he was Cardassian, and neither identity was swallowed up or made lesser for the fact that you'd have thought they'd have eaten each other alive.

A pause, one filled with half starts she would have tried to hide not too long ago, at that, and she let the hand she'd lifted before her mouth to fall. "I can't predict how this is going to end for you," Kira said, biting the end of her tongue between her teeth briefly before releasing it on a huff of a laugh and shook her head. "No more than any of us, did, back then. This is-" She almost laughed again, but this time truly did hold her tongue, at the thought that this was the legacy they were leaving for more war torn children, the ones that should have grown up without this war, self hatred of another kind, and while her people had every reason to do what they did, what that looked like to the eyes of a child, a particularly vulnerable one, didn't make those reasons look very good in the harsh light of day. "New. For all of us. But you''ll make it through. With, i think, a little bit of help."

She nodded at that earring that had so caught her interest earlier. "How would you like to make that a long range communicator with a direct line back here? To me, or uh. Anyone you want. Just in case, you understand."

She was rewarded with her first smile of the evening.

 


End file.
